


Daybreak

by Tigerstar



Series: Threshold [2]
Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: AU Without SkyClan, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, The Lake Territories (Warriors), Tribe of Rushing Water (Warriors), WindClan (Warriors), as these cats historically punch each other, be on guard for animal violence & death, rating will stay GA for now!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23785351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigerstar/pseuds/Tigerstar
Summary: Many generations ago, there was once a prophecy of flames, and of four legendary warriors that bore its embers—Fire alone could save his Clan, and all the Clans; and there were three, kin of his kin, who briefly held the power of the stars in their paws.It was a prophecy that spurred the Clans' legendary move to their current home. It is now a bedtime story for kits.Cricketpaw, a sickly WindClan cat, spent his kithood drinking in the legendary tales of the Old Prophecies in the medicine cat den. Now, as an apprentice at last, he longs to someday prove himself as a ferocious warrior in his Clan...and to perhaps fulfill a StarClan prophecy of his own. But as he trains to honor his ancestors and uphold the warrior code he holds dear, Cricketpaw finds himself transported to an unfamiliar world within his dreams—a cold, rocky, barren place pressed up against the sky, filled with ghostly cats that once lived there...
Series: Threshold [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713589
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

_The Firetail will turn the night sky to dawn_

_And the lost and hidden will be brought to light._

* * *

The world was damp and fresh and new.

Overnight, there had been a sudden squall; the great, open fields had been scoured by winds that howled and paced like dogs. Now, as the darkness drained away, the sky was cloudless and bright, and the air was no longer angry. Cool breezes rustled cheerfully through the long grass, dislodging fat drops of dew. Insects whirred lazily within the early morning heat. As the sun climbed slowly out of its nest, a little grassy hollow in the earth began to come alive with small, lithe animals. They flicked their whiskers and swiveled their triangular ears, pressing clever paws deftly against the moist ground.

Amongst them all was a little brown cat, still hardly into adulthood, letting the wind wash over his face like water.

After a moment of enjoying the sunrise, he spotted the cat he’d clearly been waiting to see. “Longleg!” he mewed, hopping to his paws and barreling across the clearing. A black-and-white patched tom had just slipped from the mouth of an old rabbit warren and into the dawn. He was older and taller than the first cat, with green eyes that seemed perpetually in want of sleep.

“Cricketkit,” Longleg said, his voice splitting into a yawn. He stretched out his forepaws, then his hind legs. “You’re underfoot again.”

Cricketkit pounced playfully at the older cat’s tail. Longleg flicked it patiently out of the reach of his paws; the movement was clearly well-practiced. His expression, always stern, still gentled slightly as he regarded his kit.

“Not so fast,” he told Cricketkit, flicking him on the forehead with his tail-tip. “ _You_ ought to be resting in your nest with Sleekfur, and _I’m_ scheduled for the dawn patrol.” Perhaps he saw the way his words made a small piece inside of Cricketkit break loose and sink low in his chest, for Longleg’s expression softened further. “Or perhaps Larkpaw will play with you?”

“I do _not_ need to be resting,” Cricketkit objected hoarsely, hating the way his voice turned breathy whenever he tried to raise it. He swallowed hard against the cough building in his chest. “Sleekfur’s asleep still, and Larkpaw’s busy. She has to train with Yellowpetal. _She’s_ already an apprentice.” He couldn’t keep his irritation from seeping into what he was saying, and guilt prickled in his paw pads at the way his father’s gaze flickered. He tried to soften his words by adding, “Like I’m going to be. At sunhigh!”

Longleg hesitated, green eyes tightening with worry, and Cricketkit felt his hope gutter in his chest. Would his father refuse to go through with the ceremony? If he took his concerns straight to Hawkstar, Cricketkit knew his apprenticeship could be delayed indefinitely.

 _I’m eight moons old,_ Cricketkit wanted to wail. _If I don’t become an apprentice_ today _, will it ever happen at all?_

 _“You have a warrior’s spirit,”_ the medicine cat, Yellowpetal, had told him once. Now he needed a warrior’s body, too—and he wouldn’t be able to strengthen his legs and lungs without proper training. Cricketkit was well past the usual timeline for a kit to become an apprentice, but he couldn’t stay in the medicine cat den until he _died_ of his cough. Surely Hawkstar and Longleg could see that!

He tried to stand tall as his father gazed at him, ominously silent. Was Longleg remembering all the ways Cricketkit had already fought, and continued to fight, simply to reach the day he received his apprentice name? Was he proud of his only kit?

Or…was he disappointed that Cricketkit had taken so long to become an apprentice?

At last, Longleg repeated, “Yes. Like you’re going to be.”

Hearing him say it was like the watching the sun banishing the night, or listening to the first gusty sigh of silence after a windstorm. Cricketkit’s heart felt so swollen with gladness and relief he thought it might burst from his ribs. He stood up as tall as he could, purring furiously, as his father rubbed his cheek gently over his son’s head.

“I’ll see you at sunhigh for the ceremony,” Longleg promised him. “Be good.”

“I’m always good,” Cricketkit replied, still purring so hard it made his chest itch. Slowly, the feeling in his lungs pooled into a steady throb. It clawed furiously at his throat.

He kept his jaws clamped shut until his father had joined with the other warriors on their patrol. His eyes watered as he watched the last tail-tip vanish over the lip of earth surrounding their camp.

Then he sank to the ground and let the coughs wrack him: dry and fast and thin, so quick he could hardly draw breath. He hunched low, eyes watering furiously, as nearby cats stopped and looked on with concern.

“Shall I call Yellowpetal?” he heard one cat—Quickwing—murmur. _As if she can't hear me coughing from across the camp!_ Cricketkit thought, ears burning.

“Wait,” another voice cautioned her—Cloudchase. In an even quieter tone, the white warrior added something that sounded like, “Today’s his ceremony—it’s probably under control.”

 _It_ is _under control,_ Cricketkit wanted to tell them as he gulped for air, feeling the spasms in his chest finally calm. His claws clutched so tightly at the soil they felt like roots, grounding him to the moors. _I’ll be the best warrior WindClan’s seen in_ moons _._

And then he thought, uneasily, as he righted himself and turned away from the warriors looking on: _I can’t stay sick forever!_

— — —

Cricketkit’s reality was polarized by two truths.

Firstly, for as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to be a warrior, like his father was, and like his mother had been.

And secondly, for as long as he could remember, he had been sick. Too sick to learn, and too sick to fight.

Cricketkit’s lungs were weak. He’d become ill just after birth, just like his mother, Darkcloud, and his two sisters, Larchkit and Flowerkit. His littermates had died only a few days after being born, but both Darkcloud and Cricketkit had fought long enough that he could still vaguely picture his mother’s dusky face, her warm belly, her rattling purr as she’d whispered to him in their nest. Her absence was a soft, dark void that he had once loved, but only barely grieved now.

If anything, a quiet, jealous part of him had stronger memories of Longleg pressed close to Darkcloud’s limp body after her death. He’d been nearly as still as his mate.

Cricketkit still remembered his father’s dismay. He remembered the way Longleg had cried for Darkcloud. He remembered the feeling of being delirious with loneliness and fever until one of the queens, Sleekfur, had volunteered to quarantine herself in the medicine den and nurse him in Darkcloud’s stead.

Not once during that time had Longleg thought his place might be with his only living son.

Worse, Cricketkit remembered the way he’d thought, as he’d slowly recovered, and his father’s absence became more and more pronounced: _If I die like Darkcloud, will Longleg hold me too?_

But Cricketkit did not die like his mother and his sisters. Despite being sickly, he’d held onto life with his little fangs and claws. Slowly, he’d gotten stronger. His milk teeth fell out. His claws grew sharper. He ate freshkill brought back by warriors, and he wrestled lightly with Larkpaw and her siblings after the main patrols had ended for the day. The only things that remained from his kithood were his name, separating him from all of his friends except Larkpaw, whose nest was practically beside his in the medicine den—and the cough persisting inside of him.

Moons slipped away. Sleekfur raised her voice at Longleg across the camp, where she thought Cricketkit couldn’t hear. Slowly, his father’s interest in Cricketkit warmed again; they ate together, and shared tongues under the stars, and Longleg would tell him about the sprawling territory beyond Cricketkit’s nursery. These fleeting moments only ever came unannounced, because Longleg _always_ had patrol. Sometimes, after listening to his son unload a quarter moon’s worth of camp news to him, he would abruptly remember he’d been meant for a patrol all along, and leave Cricketkit again.

This meant Cricketkit knew only two things for certain: that his mother was truly gone, and that his father would only spend time with him once he could follow him out of camp.

— — — 

“Be _still!_ ” purred Sleekfur, drawing him in with a firm paw. Cricketkit twisted away from her tongue to no avail. She carefully smoothed the fur between his ears, then gave her adoptive kit one last critical look. “There. You’re all ready.”

“ _Sleekfur_ ,” Cricketkit protested, embarrassed, as Larkpaw pretended not to laugh. When he looked at the pretty medicine cat apprentice, she quickly averted her smiling eyes and lifted her forepaw to her mouth.

“You look great,” she told him, her eyes still dancing. “Really.”

“I sure hope so,” he muttered, glancing nervously toward the Tallrock. Nerves stabbed through his already frail chest as he realized Hawkstar had leapt to the top of the boulder, yellow eyes keenly scanning his camp. “Oh, no. I think it’s time!”

“You’ll do fine,” Larkpaw promised him, coming over to press her shoulder gently up against his. Cricketkit was startled to realize he’d somehow grown taller than her. “You’ve been waiting for this for moons!”

“On second thought, maybe one more moon wouldn’t have killed me—”

“Let all cats old enough to catch their own prey,” rumbled Hawkstar, interrupting them, “join here beneath the Tallrock for a Clan meeting.”

Larkpaw pressed closer, while Sleekfur came around to sit on his right. Cocooned by their bright-eyed excitement and their soft purrs, Cricketpaw found himself trying desperately to feel brave. _There’s no reason for me to be afraid_ now _,_ he told himself, clawing nervously at the ground. _I have a warrior’s spirit._

Hawkstar looked around the clearing again, hemmed in by the sloping walls of earth that had contained Cricketkit for all his life. Then his gaze fell to Cricketkit, who forced himself not to shrink away from the eyes of his leader; they were as intense and unblinking as any bird of prey.

“Cricketkit,” Hawkstar said, “come forward.”

On shaking legs, he did so.

The Clan leader regarded him. “Your journey has been long,” he said, his voice ringing through the silent camp, “and fraught with challenges. Even so, you have risen to face them with all the determination and bravery of a warrior. I am pleased the day has finally come for you to begin your apprenticeship. Cricketkit, from this day forward, until you receive your warrior name, you will be known as Cricketpaw.”

He leapt down from the Tallrock then, and though he was not much larger than Longleg or Cricketpaw himself, he suddenly seemed to tower over the younger cat. Cricketpaw stiffened with barely-stifled alarm.

Hawkstar’s eyes warmed, like a secret between him and the Clan’s newest apprentice. “Don’t be nervous,” he whispered.

“Never!” Cricketpaw gasped, and the nearby cats burst into titters. His ears burned, but he kept his head tall. Hawkstar looked out at his Clan again, his whiskers curling up into a small smile.

“Talonfall,” he called.

Cricketpaw inhaled so fast he nearly triggered another coughing attack.

The Clan deputy padded forward. He was a wiry black tom, small and lithe, with keen yellow eyes. One ear was notched from an old border skirmish; his long, thin tail bore various scars that his fur grew patchily around.

Cricketpaw could not stop staring.

“Talonfall, as deputy, you have been without an apprentice for many seasons—but even despite the greencough that infiltrated our camp, and despite the losses we have suffered, StarClan has still seen fit to bless us with an abundance of young cats over the past few moons. We are in need of your skills as a mentor once more. I trust you will do all you can to pass your knowledge unto Cricketpaw.”

The black tom dipped his head, as he replied, “Yes, Hawkstar.” He turned to Cricketpaw expectantly, and with a jolt, Cricketpaw realized he needed to complete the ceremony. He nearly stumbled over to his new mentor, clumsily touching his nose to the older cat’s.

“Cricketpaw!” called Hawkstar, and the call was taken up by all the cats of WindClan. They had all watched him cling desperately to life from the moment he had been born. They had lost Darkcloud, Larchkit, and Flowerkit; they had nearly lost Cricketpaw as well.

Now, they would raise him into their ranks at last.

_Cricketpaw, the fighter. Cricketpaw, the survivor._

In the crowd, he saw Longleg, Sleekfur, and Yellowpetal—the two she-cats were as dear to him as his father, for they had both worked so fiercely to keep him alive. Yellowpetal and Sleekfur leaned against each other, calling his name. He caught the eyes of the apprentice at Yellowpetal’s side, and Larkpaw’s expression was so tenderly glad for him that it made some quiet, unnamable thing in his heart tremble.

He lifted his tail, pushing his whiskers forward in a grin, and Larkpaw smiled back, eyes shining. _Being an apprentice is already better than I’ve ever dreamed!_

“Cricketpaw,” said Talonfall, and he jumped. Turning guiltily, he met his new mentor’s eyes.

Talonfall was a small cat, smaller than his brother, Hawkstar; but he was very severe-looking despite his size, and Cricketpaw wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen the deputy smile. He certainly wasn’t smiling now. Instead, he gestured with his chin, and said, “For the moment, why don’t you settle the matter of where you’ll be sleeping? Bluepaw seems impatient to show you the apprentices’ nests.”

Sure enough, when Cricketpaw glanced over his shoulder, he found Bluepaw waiting at a respectful distance. He was flanked by Galepaw and Softpaw, his littermates. Their mentors looked on indulgently from where they’d been sitting in the crowd.

Bluepaw was a handsome, muscular young cat, the most promising of the WindClan apprentices. He carried himself like the next leader of the Clan, and the other yearlings—with the exception of Larkpaw—followed him as though he already were. Cricketpaw hadn’t spent much time with him since his graduation to the apprentices’ side of the camp. He was relieved to find Bluepaw’s expression quite friendly now.

“Is it really okay, Talonfall?”

Talonfall nodded once, curtly. He flicked his tail at the group of young cats, indicating Cricketpaw ought to join them.

“Come on, Cricketpaw!” Bluepaw called. It was clear he needed no further encouragement. “We worked all morning to make your nest.”

“I added lambs’ wool,” boasted Galepaw.

“Yeah,” said Softpaw, bounding up to Cricketpaw’s side, “but it was _my_ idea.” She shoved him gently with her shoulder, steering him toward where they slept. He resisted one last, longing look at the nursery as they padded away—and his eyes fell instead on his new mentor, now in deep discussion with Hawkstar.

It gave him a shivery, nervous feeling, one that he struggled to push away.

Still, as he followed the other apprentices, it persisted; it tangled claws in his fur, and pressed its anxious voice to his ear.

_What if Talonfall doesn’t think he can train me?_

The apprentices, like the warriors, preferred to sleep under the open sky in good weather—only the elderly, the young, and the sick had proper dens. Even so, on stormy or bitterly cold nights, the cats would retreat into burrows originally carved out by foxes and rabbits, and carefully widened by feline paws. Softpaw took him past the soft grass where the apprentices slept and toward a small opening in the shallow dip of the field. “Follow me!” she instructed Cricketpaw, and wormed her way into the tunnel, as swift as a rabbit herself.

He hesitated, afraid of how tight the fit seemed.

“Go on,” mewed Bluepaw encouragingly. “It’ll be wider inside.”

Cautiously, Cricketpaw put his face in the tunnel opening, hating how the sensitive ends of his whiskers immediately brushed dirt on both sides. He carefully began to wriggle through, aware of Bluepaw and Galepaw watching his every move. Up ahead, Softpaw meowed, “Come on, come on!”

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the light of day to the near-total darkness of the rabbit warren, but at last, he found a much larger cavern than he’d been expecting, with Softpaw sitting happily beside a single nest of moss and wool. She gestured at it grandly with her long, sweeping tail. “Here you are!” she told him, purring with excitement. “We were thinking about it, and maybe the open moor isn’t exactly what you need. This will keep you warm and dry, especially on rainy nights like last night!”

“I…” Cricketpaw paused. “You don’t want me sleeping with the rest of you?”

“Oh! That’s not it at all!” Softpaw’s face fell a little. “But since you’ve been sick, we wanted to make sure you had the option of a den anytime you need it. We asked Hawkstar and everything. When you’re feeling well, you’ll sleep with us under the stars—and on bad nights, maybe we can all pile in here with you!” She fidgeted with her paws, looking a bit embarrassed. “We just wanted—with your health, we thought it would be best to let _you_ choose where to sleep.”

It was a sweet gesture, but Cricketpaw still felt like he’d crunched his teeth into an especially sour beetle. Worse, now that Softpaw had drawn attention to his health, he could feel a cough building in his chest. He cleared his throat, trying to ease the itch. “Thank you,” he said, but he didn’t feel thankful.

He felt…isolated.

The low feeling wore at him as he followed Softpaw back out into the open. It tugged at him all the way over to his mentor’s side. Talonfall glanced briefly at him, then up at the low, gorse-studded walls around camp. “Are you ready for your first patrol?” he asked.

He opened his mouth to reply, but his words turned into a wracking cough. Humiliated, he sank against the earth, trying to catch his breath.

When the attack passed, he became aware of Talonfall’s tail, resting lightly against his shoulder. He didn’t want to look up—what if his mentor was disgusted?—but he eventually dared a quick peek at Talonfall.

The older cat was looking down at him, yes, but not unkindly. “Better now?” was all he asked.

Cricketpaw gave a miserable nod.

“Can you stand?”

He did so, despite all the stares burning into his pelt.

“Then come along.”

He couldn’t even find any joy in clambering over the shallow walls of the camp at last. His heart barely stirred at the sight of the moors and the sky stretching on for immeasurable fox-lengths ahead of them. He kept his head low, his eyes on his paws.

“Cricketpaw,” said Talonfall. “Do you think I am training you out of pity?”

He opened his mouth to answer. Hesitated. Closed it again. At last, his humiliation won out. “What mentor would want an apprentice like me?” he whispered. “My coughing will scare away any prey, or alert enemy cats to where we’re hiding. I can’t even sleep out in the open with the other apprentices. I’m weaker than the others. I…”

“Do you feel as though you will make a poor warrior?” Talonfall asked, in that quiet, disinterested way of his.

“Yes,” Cricketpaw admitted, after an awful moment grappling with the grief inside him. He’d never felt so low.

“So what do you think ought to happen to you?”

Cricketpaw blinked. His ears roared. “I,” he stammered, his legs shaking. “I’m not sure.” He couldn’t be a medicine cat apprentice. He’d never dream of trying to worm his way into Larkpaw’s position, even if he had any aptitude for herbs. He couldn’t be an elder, either—he was far too young. So what was left for him? “I’m worried I’ll be banished someday.”

“Cricketpaw,” Talonfall said firmly, “consider this your first lesson.” He turned back toward the camp, gesturing with his chin. Nervously, Cricketpaw followed his gaze.

Down in the grassy hollow, he saw Brackentail laying with Ivykit in the sun; nearby sat Yellowpetal and Sleekfur, talking happily with one another; and by the freshkill pile wrestled Galepaw and Bluepaw, only to be broken up by the stern reprimand of Runningblaze. Cool, distant Longleg was speaking with a small group of warriors—Frostbreeze, Adderstripe, Swiftwing—and his own apprentice, Fawnpaw, hovered proudly by his side as they discussed their next patrol. Round-faced Paledawn was animatedly talking with Meadowpaw; the easy camaraderie between mentor and apprentice made Cricketpaw’s heart twist in his ribs as he thought of how he’d never impress Talonfall in the same way.

“This is your family.”

Cricketpaw blinked, perking his ears in surprise.

“No cat is useless here.” Talonfall looked down at him, yellow-eyed and severe. “And no cat will be banished simply for overcoming adversity. We have held our breath these past eight moons watching you grow, Cricketpaw. Now we celebrate your life.” He flicked his apprentice with his tail-tip, silently urging him to sit up straighter. “Is it still your wish to be a warrior of WindClan?”

“Yes,” Cricketpaw breathed, afraid of how badly his desire for his warrior name burned in him, unable to look away from Talonfall’s ferocious face. “Yes. More than anything, yes.”

“Then, as your mentor, I will help you find your limits. I will make you stronger, faster. You will hunt, and you will fight. You will learn every hair on the pelt of your disability, and you will accept it for what it is. You will learn what you can do, and when, and how, without harming yourself or the Clanmates who love you. Do you understand me, Cricketpaw?”

“I—” He hesitated, thrown by the idea he would have his cough well into adulthood. Even Yellowpetal had avoided saying he would be permanently sick. “Even...even if my cough lasts forever,” Cricketpaw said, gingerly, “I can still be a warrior?”

“A fine warrior,” Talonfall replied. “I only train the best.”

Rather than feeling bolstered by Talonfall’s faith in him, he felt himself shrink further. “I’m not the best,” he whispered.

“Not yet,” said Talonfall, “but then, you haven’t even set a single paw into your own territory. Are you coming, Cricketpaw?”

And Cricketpaw, unable to argue, desperate to believe in the future promised to him by Talonfall, finally stepped out into the giant world beneath WindClan’s endless sky.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come _on_ , Cricketpaw, you slow slug!” laughed Meadowpaw. “You’ve been working on that freshkill for _ages_. Aren’t you done yet?”

Dazed, Cricketpaw looked up from the thrush he’d been sharing with Talonfall, only to discover his mentor had moved on. He was discussing something with the senior warriors—likely assignments for the dawn patrol. The cats around him were all long-limbed and slender, looming in the sunset like saplings, but small, dark Talonfall commanded their unbroken attention. The side of his face was limned russet by a last, golden stroke of sunlight over the lip of their camp. His chin was lifted, and his tail loosely curled toward the sky. No cat in the hollow seemed to matter but him.

Among the gathered cats stood black-and-white Longleg, his face as coolly empty as always. Something cold slithered in Cricketpaw’s belly, and he quickly looked back at the half-eaten bird by his paws.

“Don’t tease him, Meadowpaw,” said Fawnpaw, coming up beside her sister. She was a pretty white cat, splotched unevenly with black and red fur; in comparison, Meadowpaw was more brown than white. She blinked sweetly at Cricketpaw, then turned a smirk on her littermate. “If I recall correctly, after _we_ came back from seeing the territory for the first time, _you_ fell asleep midway through a mouse.”

Meadowpaw nudged her, giggling. She was a jolly young she-cat—Cricketpaw didn’t think he’d ever seen her upset. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad! Besides, I just want to make sure Cricketpaw eats. You have to keep up your strength, you know,” she added, looking directly at him. “You’ve got a tough mentor. I bet you’ll have fighting lessons right at daybreak.”

He gulped. Talonfall _had_ promised to teach him battle moves right away.

“Lucky,” yawned Fawnpaw. “It looks like I’ll be on the dawn patrol again. Longleg _always_ volunteers for it.”

Cricketpaw’s claws dug into the earth. _I know,_ he wanted to say. _That’s why he’s never around._ But Fawnpaw wouldn’t understand. She spent more time with Cricketpaw’s father than he could ever dream of.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, a little uneasily—despite Talonfall’s confidence in him, he was still afraid his coughing attacks might ruin his training. “Um…”

“Yes?” both she-cats said at once.

He wilted a little under their attention, feeling fumble-footed and shy. “I don’t suppose,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “you would show me some of the basics? So I can be prepared for tomorrow?”

“Oh, Cricketpaw,” Meadowpaw said, kindly, “you don’t need to practice before your first lesson! That’s why you _have_ a mentor—to teach you.”

“Besides, it’s growing dark,” added Fawnpaw. “I’d better turn in soon if I want to be up before the sun.”

Cricketpaw glanced over at his father. Longleg was padding away to sleep beneath the sky. Then he cast a quick look at Talonfall, who was busily directing Runningblaze about the night’s sentry duty.

“Okay,” he said in a small voice, trying to hold back the urge to cough.

“Don’t worry so much,” Meadowpaw told him. Her eyes were shining as she leaned forward. “I’ll practice with you once Talonfall’s taken you through the easiest forms. There’s just no point in exhausting yourself before you even begin, you know?”

Fawnpaw was distracted beside her. They watched as she pushed her whiskers out coyly at Galepaw; the male apprentice was calling to her from beside the freshkill pile. “I’m going to go,” she told Meadowpaw, eyes glinting, ears upright with happiness. “See you, Cricketpaw.”

Meadowpaw rolled her eyes at her. “If you were glowing any more about sharing tongues with Galepaw, you’d rival Silverpelt. Cricketpaw, want to come bed down with me and the others?”

He nodded, scraping earth over the untouched remains of his meal, and awkwardly shadowed her to the far side of the hollow. She had an easy way with the other apprentices that he hadn’t quite managed to develop. Watching her banter with Bluepaw and Softpaw made him miss Larkpaw so ferociously that it felt like a physical ache.

He snagged a guilty glimpse of the medicine cat den while the other apprentices loudly laughed, but he didn’t see Larkpaw; she had already turned in for the night. _I wonder if she misses me, too?_ he wondered, and then shook himself firmly—he’d only been gone one day!

“Here, Cricketpaw,” Softpaw called. She gestured to the trampled-down grass beside her with her long, pale tail. “It should be good weather tonight, but don’t feel shy about getting close if you feel cold.”

“ _Ooh_ ,” said Meadowpaw. Softpaw stuck her tongue out at her.

Cautiously, Cricketpaw stepped in between them. As Meadowpaw curled up on his left and Softpaw circled lightly to his right before settling, he stretched out and closed his eyes, pretending their breathing belonged to Yellowpetal and Larkpaw.

— — —

Cricketpaw was surrounded by stars.

His breath huffed from his maw in little clouds. The claw-shaped moon had hardly any light to lend the sky, but the thousands of constellations cast a chilly glow over the entire landscape. They revealed a world of snow and rugged gray stone, crumbling from the force of the tearing winds. Cricketpaw’s breath came high and fast; a cold, sick feeling pooled down his legs, all the way down to the tips of his claws. He frantically scanned the stars overhead for the familiar shape of Silverpelt, but they blurred and shimmered, borderless and vast. He’d thought his home in the fields was right against the sky—now, he realized he’d never even come close. Not until this moment.

“Hello,” said a cool voice in the darkness.

Cricketpaw whirled around, hair standing on end, tail fluffing dramatically behind him.

There was another cat, right in the very middle of this impossible, cold, starry place. She was a gray tabby, and the high cheekbones of her face were accentuated by dark, clear stripes. She blinked calmly at him. “Did I startle you?”

At once, Cricketpaw understood what this must be: _StarClan._ “Yes,” he mewed, honestly.

Rather than coming toward him, the queen sat and curled her long, sweeping tail around her paws. “My name is Sleet.”

“Sleet?” he repeated. It didn’t sound like a warrior name. Had she only kept the name given to her by her mother? Or—

 _Is Sleet older than the current warrior code?_ he wondered, awed. A shiver ran through him.

Sleet narrowed her eyes at him in a smile. She wasn’t frightening, but she was ethereal, as though a good, hard gust of wind would dissolve her into snow and stars. “Just Sleet. And you, young apprentice?”

“I’m—I’m Cricketpaw,” he stammered.

“I’ve been watching you, Cricketpaw,” Sleet said, “since the day your mother and siblings went to StarClan. I felt the pull of their blood as they departed. They were my kin.” Her gaze sharpened upon Cricketpaw’s face. “As are you.”

He felt as small as a newborn, suddenly, and every bit as graceless. “Um,” he asked, his voice fragile. “Are they here? With you?” He looked around, seized with anxiety over seeing Darkcloud’s face again.

Sleet closed her eyes. “No. But I am with you, and you are with me.” She stood, suddenly, and the wind rippled and tugged at her long fur. “I have seen your struggles, Cricketpaw. Your kithood was long. Your apprenticeship will be hard. But we are kin, you and I.” She stepped toward him. Cricketpaw felt frozen to the rock under his paws. “My message is this: Your body will heal. You will at last grow strong.”

“Is…” he began, but his voice was constricted by nerves. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Is that a prophecy?”

Sleet smiled. “It is the truth.” Then she hesitated, as though there was more she wished to say. Slowly, gently, she reached out, touching her nose to his forehead, in a strange mimicry of the ceremony he’d shared with Talonfall. He hardly dared breathe.

“Cricketpaw,” she murmured, “may I speak with you again? Here, in your dreams, from time to time? There is wisdom I would offer you; help I would give you, to raise you into the finest hunter.”

And Cricketpaw, gripped hard by a sudden memory of Darkcloud pressed close to him, whispering against his fur _just like this_ before she died, swallowed hard and nodded and said, “Please.”

— — —

“Again,” Talonfall told him.

Cricketpaw peeled himself away from the soft earth, shaking his head to clear it. His chest ached; before he could stop it, a wheezy cough dragged itself out of his chest, and then another. Talonfall said nothing as he caught his breath.

“I’m sorry,” Cricketpaw gasped.

The black cat tilted his head at his apprentice. “Do you need a break?”

Cricketpaw shook his head, determined to practice the move again. Talonfall’s demonstration had been fluid, easy. He’d ducked low and then shoved upward—a way of using an attacking warrior’s momentum to unbalance them. But it required Cricketpaw to move _fast_. The trick, he realized, wasn’t somehow inherently knowing his opponent would lunge for him, but instead in looking for his opponent’s tells. He hadn’t managed a single successful counterattack. The first few times, Talonfall had simply sailed overhead—but now he was properly jumping at Cricketpaw and bowling him over to help the lesson stick.

Now, Talonfall obligingly shifted his posture, bracing his weight, and Cricketpaw did the same. He watched the dappled grass-pattern of light shift dimly over his mentor’s paws as he steadied himself.

Suddenly Talonfall’s claws flexed.

Cricketpaw was moving before his mind could catch up; he skid gracelessly beneath his mentor’s belly as Talonfall leapt at him, and then shoved _up_ with the curve of his shoulder. His legs lifted him higher than he expected, and was shocked to feel Talonfall’s soft weight as his shoulder connected with his mentor’s fur, followed by a small “ _Oof_.” He turned, elated that the move had worked, only to watch his mentor flip midair and stretch out a forepaw. It came down squarely on his head, hard and flat: _smack._

“Not bad,” Talonfall said, and even though he rarely purred or smiled, his eyes were warm with approval. Then he scrubbed his paw back and forth between Cricketpaw’s ears, mussing his fur until Cricketpaw laughed and shoved him away. “But remember to keep moving. Especially when your opponent is more experienced than you.”

“I thought I’d hurt you,” Cricketpaw explained sheepishly; then he dipped his head, trying to muffle his coughing into the fur of his shoulder.

Talonfall did laugh then—a small chuckle. “I’d be a poor deputy if I let my apprentice knock the wind out of me during his first day of battle training.” He waited patiently for Cricketpaw’s coughing to subside, and when it did, he flicked his whiskers at his apprentice. “Again?”

“Again!”

They leapt and slid and tumbled in the long, waving grasses. Cricketpaw was tossed three more times before he unbalanced Talonfall again, and was then promptly knocked over for hesitating too long. On his third success, he whipped around and jumped for Talonfall before his mentor could throw him.

Talonfall’s entire body went stiff, as though thrumming with the instinct to fight back. Then he simply relaxed and rolled to the earth, bringing Cricketpaw down with him. “ _Very_ well done,” he said as he stood, flicking Cricketpaw’s breathless nose with his tail. Then he looked more closely at the younger cat on the ground, and his expression became stern. Cricketpaw quailed from the look in his eyes.

“Cricketpaw,” Talonfall said, slowly, “I’ve been asking if you _need_ breaks, not whether you _want_ them.”

“Oh,” Cricketpaw tried to say, but it came out as a long, terrible coughing fit instead.

When he could sit up again, Talonfall was a foxlength away. He caught flashes of white fur within the thick, waving grass. The wind shifted, bringing him the scents of Cloudchase, Tallfern, Fawnpaw…and _Longleg_.

His heart sank.

For a moment, there was a glimpse of black and white fur, and the glitter of an eye watching him from between the waving stalks. “Let’s head out,” Cloudchase called to his warriors—and then he stopped and offered a terrible little kindness. Kind, because it meant he cared. Terrible, because this caring came from the wrong cat. “Will Cricketpaw be all right?” he asked.

“Of course,” Talonfall assured Cloudchase.

Longleg said nothing.

The patrol departed, and Talonfall padded back to Cricketpaw’s side. “I’ve asked Fawnpaw to fetch Yellowpetal,” the deputy informed him. He tilted his head, yellow eyes flashing. “Don’t look so glum. This isn’t a punishment. _I’m_ the one who wasn’t paying attention to what you needed, Cricketpaw.”

“I’m sorry,” Cricketpaw wheezed again, because it was all he could say, all he could feel. Shame burned him from ear- to tail-tip. “I’ll be okay in a moment.”

“Maybe so,” Talonfall replied, “but you’re excused from training for the rest of the morning.” Then he lashed his tail at Cricketpaw, smacking his nose a bit less kindly than before. “I said it’s _not_ a punishment. You look as though I’ve stolen your freshkill.”

“It’s not that,” he mumbled, putting a forepaw over his eyes. “It’s not you.”

For a long moment, all he could hear was the rustling of the grass, the gentle murmuring of larks, the whispering of the breeze within the blue sky. Finally, Talonfall settled more comfortably on the ground beside him and said, “If you don’t tell me, I won’t understand.” He sighed. “My brother always told me I was thick-skulled.”

It sent a jolt through Cricketpaw to think of Hawkstar as Talonfall’s brother, rather than the Clan leader; they both seemed like individual legends, two separate stars, not like kits that had grown up in the other’s shadow.

 _What would that be like?_ he wondered, closing his eyes. _What if Larchkit and Flowerkit were still alive? How would it feel to have kin that wanted to spend time with me—that_ knew _me, the way Hawkstar and Talonfall know each other?_

For a moment, he was sorely tempted to crack open the scab that held in all of his grief and aching for Longleg. Wouldn’t it be nice to be understood? To have someone sympathize? To be told his father wasn’t his fault?

But in the end, he swallowed it down like a bad cough. _Warriors don’t complain._ “I just don’t know when I’ll be better,” he replied, finally. “I know I might be like this forever. But I… I don’t want to be.” It was truthful, even if it wasn’t the whole truth. His heart throbbed with the agony of admitting it.

“But I’m not expecting you to be ‘better,’” replied his mentor, his tone gently baffled. “That’s a ridiculous concept. Who can define what ‘better’ means? If I was ‘better,’ would I be taller? If Hawkstar were ‘better,’ would he have that limp? If Harefoot were ‘better,’ would he have sight in both eyes? These are simply our realities; these are the bodies we’ve been given to work with. But there’s nothing _wrong_ with you. Nor is there anything in the code that says you cannot become a warrior.” He shifted, looking carefully at Cricketpaw’s face. “I’m learning about your limits, just like you are. It’s the only way we can accommodate them.”

“And,” said Yellowpetal, emerging from the grass, with Fawnpaw at her side, “Larkpaw and I have been busy coming up with ideas about your training. Let’s head back to camp.” She slid along Cricketpaw’s other side with a warm purr, scooping his shoulder beneath her own. “There, there. Up you get. Talonfall, stop laying there like a lump on a log and steady his other side, won’t you? And thank you, Fawnpaw, run along. I’m sure your patrol misses you.”

 _The patrol probably misses her more than Longleg does,_ Cricketpaw thought spitefully, and then felt another wash of shame. It wasn’t Fawnpaw’s fault that his father was disappointed in him.

“Feel better soon, Cricketpaw!” chirped Fawnpaw, unbothered by Yellowpetal’s brisk orders. She obediently dove into the tall grass, rustling away from them. Talonfall had gotten to his paws and was bracing Cricketpaw’s weight with his shoulder, a bemused expression on his face.

“Shall we?” said Yellowpetal, and then set off for the hollow without waiting for a reply.

— — —

“Daily medicine?” Cricketpaw asked, dismayed. His nose was already wrinkling at the thought of constant, bitter doses of leaves.

“Daily medicine, to get that cough back under control,” Yellowpetal repeated, pushing the bundle of herbs more firmly toward him, “and special training with Larkpaw.”

“Training with _Larkpaw_?”

“I know!” said Larkpaw, practically bouncing beside her mentor. “I’m so excited! Aren’t you so excited?”

“Yes! Well! I don’t know!” Cricketpaw stammered. “I’m useless with herbs!” He looked at Talonfall, who flicked his ears as if to say, _I’m just as in the dark as you._

The pretty calico apprentice pushed past Yellowpetal, her brown eyes shining. “Not _that_ kind of training, you goose! Here’s how it will work. I’ve been thinking about your condition, Cricketpaw. Firstly—it _does_ respond to herbs. Why wait for you to have coughing attacks? Why not preemptively treat it? So, with Yellowpetal’s help—” Here she looked to Yellowpetal, her expression faintly shy. Her mentor nodded, encouraging her to keep going. “We came up with a daily dose of medicine, something weaker than your emergency herbs, that hopefully helps build up your defenses against the attacks before they can begin. We’ll start testing it immediately. And!”

“And?” Cricketpaw gasped, wondering if, after all this time, his recovery could truly be so easy. How could there be _more_?

Larkpaw purred at him. “Recently, when I was collecting herbs past the Twolegplace, I met Fernfrost in the marshlands by the island. I’ve mentioned him before…?”

Cricketpaw nodded. Fernfrost had been RiverClan’s medicine cat apprentice when Larkpaw had just begun her training, and had only recently received his full name. Larkpaw had told him all about the ceremony the following day, her voice soft and awed as she deftly sorted berries and leaves, and Cricketpaw had found himself grappling with a strange jealousy that _Fernfrost_ would be at Larkpaw’s naming ceremony, when Cricketpaw couldn’t be...

“Good! Well, I told Fernfrost what I was looking for and why,” Larkpaw continued, snapping Cricketpaw back into the present, “and he said there had been cats in RiverClan that reacted to _pollen_. You know, the stuff that bees collect! And your condition gets worse in newleaf and greenleaf. I’d already started to wonder if there was something in the air, something that comes with warm weather. Now we know!”

Talonfall sat back on his haunches, yellow eyes glinting in the gloom of their den. “Now we know,” he repeated. “But where does training with Larkpaw come in, Yellowpetal?”

“It may not just be the pollen,” Yellowpetal said. Her eyes were soft, nearly apologetic. “Cricketpaw was sick for a long time; that sickness may have damaged his breathing. That’s why Larkpaw has been coming up with special exercises to strengthen his lungs.”

“And so, Talonfall, with your permission,” Larkpaw said, her face bright and determined, suffused with light, “I would like to help train your apprentice.”

He watched her for a moment, and then he lifted his whiskers at her in a rare smile. “If Yellowpetal thinks you can help Cricketpaw breathe,” he said, “then we would both be in your debt, Larkpaw.”

Cricketpaw felt as though his head might spin off his shoulders. As sudden and shocking as a slap of cold wind, he remembered a shimmery gray cat touching her nose to his head, the two of them surrounded by endless stars and snow.

_Your body will heal._

_You will at last grow strong._

_Sleet’s message was_ true _!_ he realized, followed by a growing sense of dread. He knew, dimly, that he ought to be glad things were falling into place, but instead he found himself trembling. He’d actually been visited by a cat from _StarClan_!

There was noise in the den, because Yellowpetal and Talonfall were talking, but it sounded as though it was coming from the end of a very long tunnel. His ears were ringing; his heart was hammering. The only clear thing in his sight was Larkpaw, who stood proudly at Yellowpetal’s side as she watched their mentors.

 _I have to tell her about Sleet,_ Cricketpaw decided, one shaking paw pressing against the bundle of herbs he was meant to swallow.

Her eyes flicked toward him, catching him staring. She gave him a bright smile. Something flashed in him then, as sudden and luminous as a firefly in the dark. He caught his breath, then looked guiltily at his paws.

_I just hope she believes me!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg... hello again...  
> sharing my writing is a super embarrassing thing even though this is just a goofy cat fanfiction. ty for reading ;__;  
> writing about cricketpaw having lung troubles is so crazy. i knew he would have this condition way before i got The Rona but now that it's been 2 months and i'm still wheezing... WHEW!! cricketpaw!! baby!!! i'm with you!!!  
> let's work hard together!  
> ok see you again... soon... i think... LOL
> 
> ps - i think i broke the end notes LMAO this is what i get for writing fanfiction


	3. Chapter 3

The morning dawned clear and bright. Sunlight washed relentlessly at Cricketpaw’s eyelids until they opened; then he scrambled to his paws, dislodging Softpaw’s cheek from where it had ended up pressed against his shoulder. She gave a startled _mew_ , shaking herself awake.

“Where’s the moor fire?” Softpaw mumbled, her voice cracking into a yawn.

“The sun’s eye is wide open!” Cricketpaw told her. “I’m late for training!”

“You can’t be late for training if your mentor never gave you a _time_ ,” Softpaw protested sleepily, but Cricketpaw was already trotting off in search of Talonfall, or perhaps Yellowpetal. The grassy hollow was fully alive with cats as the dawn patrol slipped back in with prey. He passed Bluepaw and Galepaw tussling like kits while Meadowpaw jeered at them; and he ducked neatly around Runningblaze, whose intent to break up their play-scuffle simmered as hot as greenleaf air on a Thunderpath. “ _Honestly_ ,” he heard the older cat snap from behind him, “you’re both only a moon away from your warrior names, and _this is how you act?_ ” There was a muffled thump, as though he’d clouted one of the toms with his paw. Cricketpaw stiffened and didn’t look back.

Meadowpaw wriggled up beside him a moment later, laughter glimmering in her voice. “Those two mousebrains will be collecting bedding for Harefoot until their naming ceremony.”

Her eyes cut sideways at him, inviting him to share in the joke, and Cricketpaw smiled. “They’re still the two strongest apprentices in the Clan, even if all they do is mess around.”

“Ugh, Cricketpaw, I’m right here,” she said, gently knocking her shoulder into his. “And I’m _very_ strong, thank you. Hasn’t Talonfall taught you a single thing about talking to queens?”

His pace stuttered, and an uncomfortable warmth crawled beneath his fur. “Oh,” he said, “um, I didn’t mean…”

“Cricketpaw! Over here!”

Meadowpaw’s ears twitched. Larkpaw was standing near the edge of the camp, only a few foxlengths away, looking clean and cloud-soft in the warm morning light. As she caught Cricketpaw’s eye, she dipped her head and lifted a fat vole from the earth, clearly inviting him to share breakfast. _And herbs_ , he realized. He’d been busily working with Talonfall and Yellowpetal on his new herbal regimen in addition to his warrior training, and he’d already begun to see results. He just wished they tasted less... completely awful.

“Ah,” Meadowpaw said, smirking. “Or maybe I’m just not the _right_ queen.”

Alarm seized him. “ _She’s_ —” Cricketpaw began sharply.

“The medicine cat apprentice,” Meadowpaw finished for him, flicking him with her tail. Her expression, her voice, remained undimmed; but her eyes were cool, and she regarded him for a long moment, as though she was looking for something specific inside him and coming up short. “And you have to take your medicine. We’ll try this again later.” And with that, she was off to intercept her mentor. He hesitated, watching the relaxed banter between Paledawn and Meadowpaw, and envied her. She was so relaxed, so self-assured, so capable of speaking to any cat she wished.

And Cricketpaw…

He shook his head. He might be the same age as Meadowpaw, but he felt moons younger.

 _Maybe none of this really has to do with_ me _,_ he thought, trudging toward Larkpaw, and trying to bury his embarrassment like unfinished freshkill. _Maybe Meadowpaw just likes drama. We’re all too young to be considering mates — that’s warrior stuff, and I’m still so uncoordinated I forget to breathe while I’m fighting!_

But he couldn’t deny the little stir in his chest as he saw Larkpaw waiting for him, a little, smoky smudge of gray and white and gold in the long grass. It touched him, quick and gentle as a moor wind, and fled again.

Small, but insistent. Soft, but firm.

A feeling like wanting.

— — —

She led him out of the hollow and into the greenleaf sunshine. The sky was hot and blue, and the few stray clouds scuttered carefully around the sun, as though afraid to block its light. His mouth was still sour from his morning dose of herbs, but he couldn’t deny that his body felt light and strong, and his chest wasn’t tight.

“Okay,” Larkpaw said. “First, I want you to relax.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“No, no. Relax your body here,” she told him, “and here.” Her paw gently poked his shoulder, then darted around to his chest. “Also, stop being nervous.”

“I’m not nervous!” he lied.

Larkpaw ignored him. “Sit,” she said, "and really think about relaxing your muscles. Let go of the tension you’re holding, even if it’s small.” She watched him do so, and instructed him to breathe, deep and slow. Finally, she let out a purr of satisfaction. “Okay. Now, every time you breathe, I want you to think about the air you’re pulling in. Feel it in your belly, then push it out. I want your stomach to move more than your chest. Actually—I want that gut bulging like you’ve had an entire hawk for dinner.” 

He frowned at the imagery this invoked, but attempted it anyway.

“Again. Belly, not chest!”

Cricketpaw breathed deliberately until he imagined he was starting to feel lightheaded; at last, Larkpaw said, “Good. Just keep inhaling all the way down. _Really_ let your belly push the air back out. Your core will do almost all of the work.”

They continued through a series of breathing exercises. When she was pleased with his progress, she called a halt to their work. “I want you doing this all the time. And I do mean _all_ the time.” She wrapped her tail around her forepaws. “When you’re selecting freshkill, before you go to sleep, in the middle of conversations with Meadowpaw…”

The hair lifted on the back of his neck, but before he could say anything, Larkpaw stood and braced her weight against the ground in a warrior’s defensive stance. “Now,” she said, “we’ll go through what you’ve been working on with Talonfall.”

“We’re going to practice fighting?” he asked, alarmed.

Larkpaw twitched her whiskers at him. “I’ll never be a warrior like you,” she mewed primly, “and it might be against the code to harm a medicine cat, but Yellowpetal has still trained me to defend myself. Just like any other WindClan apprentice!”

 _Meadowpaw was right,_ Cricketpaw thought, horrified. _I keep sticking my foot in my mouth around she-cats._

Larkpaw’s eyes glittered at him, and her expression smoothed back into a smile. “But go easy, please?”

“I don’t think I have to,” he replied, shifting his weight. “You know exactly where to hit me to trigger a breathing attack.”

She laughed outright. “And you better believe I will,” she said, before dashing straight at him. He expected her to try to unbalance his footing, but instead, she went straight onto her hind legs, lashing at him with her forepaws. He took a solid blow across the forehead— _ouch!_ —in order to twist his body up between her front legs and hook his paws around her shoulders. He was larger, and his center of balance was low and strong. He knocked her neatly to the ground, only for her back legs to slam into his belly, kicking him as soundly as a hare.

Cricketpaw gasped, surprised, and took another hard blow to his muzzle. If Larkpaw’s claws had been out, he realized, he’d be bleeding all over the ground. He wheezed, and Larkpaw hooked her paw under his jaw, shoving him off balance.

“Breathe from your belly!” she ordered him. “Not from your chest!”

He forced his belly to expand and push, swept low to the ground, and then barreled up at her like a badger, the way Talonfall had been teaching him. Larkpaw’s claws _did_ come out then, and skimmed lightly through the fur of his shoulders as she tried and failed to catch herself. She went flying off through the moor grass.

“Larkpaw!” he coughed, terrified he’d hurt her.

“Keep breathing from your belly!” she called to him, her voice muffled. “Don’t stop!”

“Are you—”

“Just belly breathe!” she called. Her voice was clearer now. A moment later, her head poked through the tall grasses. Her eyes glittered cheerfully at him. “If you’re talking, you’re not breathing. _What_ a _toss_!”

The admiration in her voice made him feel shy. “Thanks,” he wheezed. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me! During the last half-moon, Curlpaw was teaching me about this herb I can poison you with for revenge. How are your lungs? Do you feel an attack coming on?”

He breathed doubtfully—from his belly—and realized his chest, though tight, was still clear. “I’m okay. You _did_ go for my weak spots!”

“Any warrior will use them against you in battle!” she retorted, flattened herself along the ground like a weasel. “Now _I’m_ going to throw _you_. Make sure you’re breathing from your belly.”

“But—”

“Belly!” she shouted, and jumped for him.

— — —

“So a medicine cat threw you yesterday,” Talonfall said, mildly, from the back of their border patrol.

Cricketpaw straightened up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. “Who told you that?”

Galepaw snickered from the front of the line. “We were watching from the top of the hollow,” he called over his shoulder.

Runningblaze snorted and gave his apprentice a solid _thwap_ with his tail. “Play nice.”

“ _I_ was watching because I’m your mentor, and any training you do with Larkpaw reflects back on me. Runningblaze was just avoiding checking the borders like I’d asked him to.”

“You _always_ want me on border patrol,” he complained. “Besides, Longleg didn’t mind covering for me.”

“Well, you’re doing it now, Runningblaze,” Tallfern added, from where she’d been serenely padding along at the very front of their line. “That’s all that matters.” Even though Talonfall was present, she’d been asked to lead the patrol, and was taking it far more seriously than the rest of the WindClan cats accompanying her.

“Yeah,” Galepaw said cheekily, “because _now_ the deputy’s kit-sitting you, you great lump.”

He ducked under the young warrior’s lunge, dashing ahead when Runningblaze gave chase. Tallfern stepped out of their way, sighing as they went. “ _Silverpelt_ ,” she exclaimed, miffed. “They act more like brothers than they do mentor and apprentice. I shudder to think of how much bolder Galepaw will be with his warrior name. Bluepaw, too.”

“Bold enough to put me out of a job, perhaps?” Talonfall joked.

Cricketpaw turned his cheek on the conversation, still stung by the knowledge that _Runningblaze_ had been watching him train, while Longleg hadn’t had any interest in him at all. “Talonfall,” he muttered, “I can smell fieldmouse. Do you mind if I…?”

His mentor didn’t turn his eyes away from the cats ahead of them, but his whiskers flexed in a smile. The deterioration of their patrol seemed to be gently amusing to him; Tallfern, alternatively, had a thunderous scowl fixed upon her muzzle. “Go on, then. Bury what you catch; we’ll pick it up on our way back to camp.”

“Oh, _Talonfall_ ,” Tallfern scolded him. “What if today’s the day RiverClan invades?”

“Then at least we’ll be well-fed while we lick our wounds,” was his mentor’s calm reply, before the waving sea of grass swallowed up the last clear sounds of their group.

He knew he should be bolstered by his mentor’s faith in Cricketpaw catching prey, but instead he felt sick and small from disappointment. He hadn’t even spoken with his father since the day he’d been apprenticed. Did Longleg not feel the need to check in on his only kit? Was Fawnpaw the kit Longleg wanted? He angrily swatted at a chrysalis he’d spotted clinging to a fern in the grass, and knocked it free; then he pounced on it, cracking it beneath his paws with a sharp, final _snap_. There was no death cry from the defenseless insect within, and that made him feel worse, somehow.

 _Fight back!_ he wanted to say. Frustration bubbled in him like an unspent shout.

His ears burned as he lay them flat against his head. He lowered into a hunter’s crouch, tasting the air, looking for little flickers of movement by the thick bases of the grass chutes.

Shouldn’t Longleg be thinking about him, even a little? Cricketpaw had defied all the odds stacked against him. He was _excelling_. He’d been the one to live—not Darkcloud, not Larchkit or Flowerkit. _Cricketpaw_. He’d been given the deputy of WindClan as his mentor. He’d seen StarClan in his dreams. So what if Larkpaw had gotten in a lucky move against him? Their training was a testament to everything he was doing right. Every day, Cricketpaw became faster, stronger. He was fortifying the parts of him that were bad and soft and weak.

The parts Longleg didn’t like. The parts Cricketpaw _hated_ about himself.

Soon he’d be a warrior; someday _he_ might be deputy, rather than Galepaw or Bluepaw. Then Longleg wouldn’t be able to ignore him, because all of his mousebrained patrol orders would be coming from his own kit. Wouldn’t _that_ be satisfying, Cricketpaw thought savagely, as his eyes trained on the little brown shadow of a mouse in the grass. His muscles shivered, tensing all along his slender body. He held his breath.

Crickets were small. Mice and shrews dined on them before warriors turned them to freshkill. They were tiny, fragile, short-lived.

But Cricketpaw wanted, suddenly and desperately, to be big.

He leapt high, like his namesake, and trapped his prey under his paws, just as neatly as he’d caught the chrysalis. His teeth sank into the mouse’s tiny neck, meeting in its spine, and he felt the action of killing shudder through his jaws. For a second, he hunched there, holding the mouse, drool welling almost painfully from his gums. He had the kit-like urge to sing about his catch with a gruesome little growl, as though warning away an invisible crowd from his freshkill; but he swallowed it down because he was a warrior, and his catch belonged to his Clan.

Slowly, he creaked his jaws open, forcing himself to let it go. He buried his mouse in the soft earth, and stepped back. Energy hummed in him, so hot that his whiskers felt capable of crackling. He felt as storm-bright as a moor sky at the height of greenleaf.

It nearly hurt him, practicing this patience. It was like a thorn in his paw.

But he’d done it before. He’d waited two extra moons to become an apprentice. He knew he could outlast anything, outwait anyone. He could wait to eat, as the code demanded; he could wait to become strong through his training; he could wait to become a warrior, a deputy, a leader. He’d never felt conviction as strong as this—the knowledge that he would be big, rather than an insect in the dirt, helpless against Longleg’s disinterest and the unfairness of his kithood illness.

 _Sleet,_ he thought, as he turned in search of a second mouse. _Maybe if I think hard enough about her, Sleet will visit me again in my dreams._

If his father refused to support him as he became a warrior...then he’d find kin who could.

— — —

He opened his eyes to dark, wintry cold, hemmed in by jagged peaks of rock. Elated, Cricketpaw looked around, his breath steaming in the moonlight. The stars, like last time, hung low enough that he thought stretching out his tail might disturb them. He waited to see Sleet’s silvery fur materialize from the shadows—

And instead he saw a strange cat, watching him from a pile of wind-thrown rubble.

He was a sleek, brown tabby, with a symmetrical splash of white on his forehead. He looked surprised to see Cricketpaw, but not alarmed; and as Cricketpaw stared at him, he realized this cat was young, hardly more than an apprentice himself.

“Are you... WindClan?” the strange cat asked. His forehead was creased in concentration, scrunching up the shape of his white marking.

“I... yes?” replied Cricketpaw, edging backward. Then he wanted to claw his own face. _Yes?_ he demanded of himself. _Yes!? Is that how you’ll handle yourself in battle? You’ll just tell any old enemy cat who you are and where you’re from!?_

“I’m Swiftpaw,” said the cat. “I’m from RiverClan.” He didn’t seem bothered at all that they were in a strange place, surrounded by strange stars, from opposing Clans. “Come on, then. It’s cold out here.”

With that, he turned and hopped over a large boulder, vanishing from view.

Cricketpaw just stood and stared. His fur slowly smoothed out; he twitched his tail until it shrank in size. The cold began to seep into his fur, which was still greenleaf-thin in his dream, and he suppressed a shudder. _StarClan,_ he thought, desperately. _Sleet. Is this a vision? Am I about to receive a prophecy?_

Swiftpaw’s head suddenly poked back up over the boulder. “Are you coming?” he asked. “There’s no other way off the mountain except for waking up!”

“ _Mountain_!?” Cricketpaw replied, his voice going shrill. He’d only ever heard the term in the context of the Old Prophecies—a bitter, preyless place, rocky and terrible, filled with monsters that had stalked and killed little cats. There had once been a whole Tribe within the mountains, with complicated names and strange customs, but they no longer existed. This was not a place where cats were meant to survive.

 _Why would StarClan even have a mountain?_ he wondered, shivering. He supposed that explained the snow, and how very close the sky seemed.

Another cat appeared beside Swiftpaw. She was much smaller than the RiverClan apprentice, and only the pale shapes of her ears were truly visible over the rock’s edge. “Hello?” she called. “Are you there?”

“He’s there, Mothpaw,” Swiftpaw said, indulgently. His voice was full of warmth for her.

“I know this is scary,” Mothpaw piped up again, “but if you come with us, we can explain everything!”

“This is a dream,” Cricketpaw said, as calmly as he could. “This is a bad dream.”

“If it’s just a dream,” Swiftpaw replied, “why don’t you come talk to us before you wake up?”

“You’re from RiverClan.”

“Yes,” Swiftpaw said, but it was clear he was starting to lose his patience. “And Mothpaw is from ThunderClan. Are you coming?”

He hesitated for a moment longer—hoping to wake up, perhaps, or for the stars to stop being so bright, or for this cold, strange place to suddenly begin to make sense. And when none of these things happened, he scrambled nervously up onto the boulder, and looked down at the two young cats beneath him.

Swiftpaw had dense, glossy fur and curious, green eyes. He looked as large and as strong as Bluepaw from WindClan—his paws, Cricketpaw noticed nervously, and the tips of the claws peeking out from his toes, were huge. Beside him was Mothpaw, who was little and cream-colored, with faint, reddish tabby markings on her delicate face. The starlight washed her out, making her look almost ghostly.

“Hello,” she said, pushing her whiskers forward in a smile. “I’m Mothpaw. What’s your name?”

Again, he paused. But this was a dream, and he hated to be churlish, especially when she was looking so earnestly at him. “I’m Cricketpaw.”

“Was that so bad?” Swiftpaw teased him. “We’re on _your_ side, mousebrain.”

Cricketpaw bristled a little. “No, you’re not,” he replied. “You’re both from different Clans. If this wasn’t a dream, we’d be breaking the warrior code.”

Something flickered in Swiftpaw’s eyes, but it vanished just as quickly. “Then it’s a good thing we’re all dreaming,” he said, jumping down from the boulder. Mothpaw did the same. Cricketpaw eyed the space they’d made for him, and then at last jumped down, so that he was eye-level with the other apprentices. “You were lucky. You were _chosen_ to come here.”

“Chosen?”

“Yes!” breathed Mothpaw, her blue eyes shining. “This is special. _We’re_ special.”

“Special?” Cricketpaw repeated dumbly. He felt as though he was floundering around in the dark, absolutely blind.

“I never stood out in RiverClan until I started having these dreams,” Swiftpaw boasted. He set off along a thin, rocky path, interspersed with tough, silvery weeds. “Now I’m one of the strongest apprentices in my den. _And_ my mentor just showed me a great new way to hunt fish.”

“Nobody is as fast as me,” Mothpaw purred at Cricketpaw’s side. “I’ve always been small, but my mentor showed me how to use that to my advantage. Nobody can catch me in ThunderClan.”

“Your...mentors?”

“Yes!” Mothpaw said. Her tail stood straight up in excitement. “Our mentors! Do you remember the Old Prophecies, about the cats that trained in their dreams? They got stronger, and faster, and fiercer. And _we’ve_ been chosen to receive special lessons, just like them! We train more than any other apprentice in the Clans!”

“My mentor’s name is Gray,” Swiftpaw said, smiling over his shoulder at Mothpaw. “And her mentor is Bird. They’re amazing. They’re making _us_ amazing.”

Cricketpaw had stopped cold. “But,” he stammered, “the cats, the ones that had those dreams… They were misled. All the stories of the Old Prophecies say that they were training in the Dark Forest to _destroy_ the warrior code!” Suddenly, the night seemed even closer and colder than before. “Is that...is _that_ where we are?”

“Do you have feathers between your ears?” scoffed Swiftpaw. “We’re on a mountain, not in a forest.”

“But we are not in StarClan,” came a new voice, startling all of the apprentices. Lounging on the boulder behind them was Sleet. Her long, silky fur rippled in the cold wind, nearly the color of ice beneath the starlight. She smiled down at Cricketpaw. His relief at seeing Sleet rushed over him like a hot greenleaf breeze, followed by the icewater terror of her pronouncement.

“Welcome back, Cricketpaw,” she purred tenderly. When she leapt to the earth, her paws hardly made a sound, and the snow didn’t give beneath her weight. She glided more than padded toward the apprentices. Even so, the nose she pressed in greeting upon Cricketpaw’s forehead was solid and warm. “I was too excited to meet you last time; kin of my kin, my darling Cricketpaw. I never introduced myself properly.” She stepped back, her eyes luminous and full of affection. “My full name is Sleet Over Small Mountain Flowers. I am so pleased to welcome you to the Tribe of Endless Hunting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you ever start writing a silly cat fanfiction without fully planning out what will happen (instead, you just give yourself a plot, a loose outline of how to connect the dots, and only 5 chapters to say what you want to say)? just me? ok....  
> anyway black lives matter, if you show me a receipt for a donation you've made to an organization aiding the BLM movement/memorial funds i will match your donation :-) [here are some suggestions of places to donate!](https://nymag.com/strategist/article/where-to-donate-for-black-lives-matter.html)  
> also did you see tokyo just had a massive BLM protest! super proud. i couldn't go because we're not supposed to travel between prefectures yet. but soon....


	4. Chapter 4

Cricketpaw tried not to wriggle as Mothpaw smeared great pawfuls of mud against his fur. He shuddered and grit his teeth against the chill. _Maybe I’ll wake up soon, warm in the grass,_ he thought hopefully; but as Mothpaw put one final, playful smudge of mud along his nose, he had to admit the Tribe of Endless Hunting still held his dreaming mind tight. He sneezed.

“There,” the little ThunderClan apprentice told him. “You look just like a proper to-be!”

“How come Swiftpaw doesn’t have to roll around in mud?” Cricketpaw asked, trying not to whine.

“He’s a cave-guard,” she replied cheerfully. She stepped back, closed her eyes, and recited, “To-bes begin training at eight moons as either cave-guards or prey-hunters, as decided by the Teller of Pointed Stones.” Then she smirked at him. “Also, he _does_ have to get muddy. It keeps him warm.”

“ _Eight_ moons?” he repeated, forgetting about the mud (which had admittedly begun to shield him from the bitter wintry winds.) _That’s when I began my training in WindClan!_

“I know, it’s a bit of a long wait,” Mothpaw replied obliviously, “but mountain life can be difficult. Bird told me it’s safest to make kits to-bes when they’re old enough and strong enough to survive.”

He swallowed nervously. “Survive?”

“A perfect subject for your first lesson,” said Sleet, who seemed to be capable of appearing directly behind Cricketpaw whenever she wished. Another, smaller she-cat accompanied her. She was wiry and only slightly taller than Mothpaw, but her amber eyes glowed like the coals Cricketpaw had seen left behind in Twoleg firepits. She twitched her dark, striped tail impatiently.

“Are we hunting today?” she asked Sleet. “Or are we putting all of Mothpaw’s hard work aside while your new to-be whimpers about getting his paws dirty?”

Sleet twitched her ears at the she-cat’s tone, but her expression remained placid. “Cricketpaw, this is Fierce Cry of Little Bird. She’s a prey-hunter, and she mentors Mothpaw.” Then she stepped back, deferring to Bird. “By all means, let’s give my new to-be a demonstration of the skills he’ll soon be learning.”

Bird sniffed at him. She trotted out into the starlight, a rivulet of black against the moon-bleached granite, and Mothpaw scrambled to stay by her side. Cricketpaw and Sleet took up the rear. The further they trotted up the winding mountain path, the more mud-stiff pelts Cricketpaw noticed slinking in the shadows of the boulders around them. Eyes flashed curiously at him in the dark, but none of the newcomers spoke. They merely followed Bird’s momentum with the quiet, intense hunger of hunting dogs.

A shiver ran down his spine. He kept his eyes ahead.

Behind Cricketpaw, the craggy rock continued to rise upward, as stark and straight as a tooth. Before him, the world sloped up, only to abruptly drop away over cliffs so sharp they left Cricketpaw dizzy. There had been a low rumbling in his bones, in the very back of his mind; now it had grown into a lion’s roar of noise, crashing all around in his skull. He realized they’d come to a wide, thrashing river, which was taking flight over the very cliffs he’d been so nervously watching from the corner of his eye.

“Home,” Sleet breathed in his ear.

 _Oh_ , he thought. _I suppose they called it the Tribe of Rushing Water in the Old Prophecies for a reason._

Bird had flattened herself into shadow. Cricketpaw hardly knew she was there; her scent had been dampened by the mud she wore on her pelt. Sleet held him back, and he crouched low beside her. Mothpaw moved alone, only half-striped by moonlight. Her entire body seemed fixed upon something he couldn’t quite see. He blinked, squinting, and realized the pocket of snow they were looking at was moving—an ermine was dashing lightly over its surface.

But Mothpaw hesitated.

He tensed instinctively, even though he knew he was too far away to catch it. A gentle paw pressed against his shoulders, nearly pushing him flat to the ground, before he could try to spring. “Wait,” whispered Sleet from beside him. “Watch.”

Mothpaw’s muscles were slowly bunching up. She was readying herself.

Abruptly, it was as though the night itself had coalesced into a dark, winged shape. Cricketpaw jumped. So silently did the owl strike the ermine, skimming it off of the snow, that if his attention had not already been fixed upon the scene, he would have missed it entirely. And then, miraculously—the owl came crashing down, with the ermine still tangled in its talons.

Bird darted out from the shadows, throwing herself upon one slapping wing. A second cat leapt out to help, flanked by an entire warrior patrol’s worth of prey-hunters. Meanwhile, little Mothpaw buried her maw in the owl’s rising ruff of feathers, and struggled vainly to break its neck. _She_ had brought it down by leaping onto its back!

“Go,” ordered Sleet, and Cricketpaw shot out into the night.

The owl’s lashing beak was still free, and it was twisting its neck vainly to get at Mothpaw. Cricketpaw darted before it and slammed a forepaw over its eyes, trying to blind it with its claws. Before it could jab at him, he slammed his weight into it again, making it reel. As it shrilled in pain, Mothpaw finally succeeded in wrenching its neck up and back. The owl went still.

Mothpaw’s eyes were bright with success, but her paws were shaky as she jumped back to the icy rock below her prey. Cricketpaw stared at her in awe until she flicked her whiskers self-consciously at him. “Thanks,” she mewed.

“It could have carried you right off!” he gasped in reply.

“And that’s why we never hunt alone,” Bird huffed, dropping the owl’s wing, which was longer than her entire body. “We need at _least_ three prey-hunters to take down something of this size.” Her eyes warmed as she looked to Mothpaw, and she let out a gruff, rattly purr. “I bet Sand two voles you’d get an owl within your first moon here. Well done, Mothpaw!”

“That was her _first_ owl?” asked the second, unnamed cat. “She’s a natural!”

“Perfect form,” Sleet added. “Mothpaw’s faster than any of you muskrats.”

There was a good-natured chorus of objections from the watching Tribe cats; Mothpaw made herself smaller and flicked her ears shyly, but her eyes were brightly pleased. As the larger cats began to drag the owl down along a cliffside path, she told Cricketpaw, “That’s why kits train late. Our enemies are always coming from above. But—” She paused, smiling like she held a secret, her whiskers gilded by moonlight. “We’re united against them, the owls and the eagles, and we always eat well in the end. No Clans, no borders, no warrior code keeping us all apart; just one Tribe, and one mountain. Always trusting the cats around you to keep you safe.”

“A family,” Cricketpaw said softly, looking at Sleet ahead of him.

“A family,” echoed Mothpaw. This time, her smile was for Swiftpaw of RiverClan, trotting up with the other cave-guards to help carry her kill.

— — —

Every morning, Cricketpaw’s eyes were heavy when he woke, but his mind and heart felt bright. His days were filled with training; usually with Talonfall, and sometimes with Larkpaw. His nights were for Sleet, and Mothpaw, and Swiftpaw.

“Yesterday, Talonfall told me I’ve got one of the best jumps for bird-catching he’s ever seen in an apprentice,” Cricketpaw boasted to Swiftpaw. He was trying out a couple nights of cave-guard training, just to keep his fighting moves sharp, while Sleet and Gray watched from a ledge above.

Swiftpaw barreled at him, and Cricketpaw twisted out of his way, like he’d been taught in warrior training; but a paw came unexpectedly up under him, hooking his forelegs neatly like a caught fish. He stumbled, and Swiftpaw pinned him.

“See?” he purred. “I told you this training would be good for you. Get up and let me show you how I unbalanced you.”

“Is—is that okay?” Cricketpaw asked nervously. “Isn’t it a RiverClan move?”

Swiftpaw snorted at him. “We’re not Clan cats anymore,” he told Cricketpaw. “We’re Tribe, and you’re my friend. Now stand like this. It’s all in the way you ripple your weight from paw to paw _—_ you need to be as fluid as water.”

Cautiously, Cricketpaw stood and copied Swiftpaw’s posture. “But...when we’re awake, we’re Clan. Aren’t you worried we’ll meet up in battle?”

“Don’t be mousebrained,” Swiftpaw told him, both careless and affectionate. His tabby face was perfectly open. The large white marking on his forehead glowed in the silver light that seemed to shimmer along every solid edge in the Tribe of Endless Hunting. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me or Mothpaw. Besides, someday we’ll be leaving the Clans behind, and going to the mountains for _real_.”

This was news to Cricketpaw. “We’re—we’re _leaving_ the lake?”

Swiftpaw blinked at him. “Of course. Why else would we be doing all this? We can’t re-form the Tribe in Clan territory!”

“He’s right,” called Gray. The large cave-guard hopped down from his outcropping to stand beside Swiftpaw. His fur was long and matted all over with mud, and his eyes were hard. “The memory of the Tribe is in danger of being lost forever. If our way of life is fully absorbed by the Clans, countless generations of cats—the blood they’d spilled for their Tribe, the legends they’d lived by, the culture they’d formed—would be erased. Forgotten. Thrown to the stars, and torn apart by the winds.”

“This is _your_ heritage, too, Cricketpaw,” added Sleet from above; her eyes glimmered sadly in the dim light. “You were born into a Clan, but your blood is still Tribe. That is why we have called out to you—we train you in order to protect our legacy, and pass down our way of life to a new generation. The Clans have stolen _everything_ from us, but we still want to restore our place in the mountains.”

Cricketpaw sat down, hard, on the cold stone beneath his paws. Gray watched him, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Swiftpaw’s face was soft with concern. He blinked at them, but all he really wanted was Sleet—he suddenly ached for the way she’d come to him in the snowy dark. The way she’d pressed close to him, breathed against his fur, the way Darkcloud had done. _But my mother and siblings are in StarClan,_ he thought, dismayed. _Not here. And Longleg will never leave WindClan, not even if the lake suddenly swallowed up our camp. Sleet and Longleg are the only family I have left, and Sleet isn’t even alive._

When he looked up, Sleet stood before him, as though she’d read his thoughts.

“The Tribe went through a season of hardship,” she told him, her gaze steady. “Then a cycle of seasons. Then many cycles. Our numbers dwindled; no rogue cats braved the snows or the killing birds. It was impossible to keep our Tribe strong and fortified with new blood—no new kits were born. My daughter, Slope Where White Flowers Grow, was the last cat born into the Tribe.” She closed her eyes tightly, drawing her ears back, as though willing away pain from an old wound. “When we finally begged our allies in the Clans for their support, we were met with an ultimatum: either renounce our entire way of life and join with the Clans as warriors beneath their code, or return to our mountain to slowly die.”

“Stoneteller chose death,” spat Gray. “As did I.”

Sleet gave him a long, weary look. There was a terrible pain in her eyes when she turned them back to Cricketpaw. “I chose the Clans, for the sake of my daughter. She became Whiteflower; _her_ daughter was Lightfeather; and _her_ daughter was Darkcloud. Your mother.”

“And they didn’t go to the Tribe of Rushing Water after they died?” Cricketpaw asked in a small voice.

“They chose StarClan,” Sleet said, her voice heavy with sorrow, “as they were raised to be Clan cats.”

“If no cat thinks of us,” Gray snarled, “if they no longer honor us, if they speak spitefully of us in their Clan-glorifying legends and nowhere else, then we will fade and die our true deaths. Everything we’ve done will have been for nothing. Are _you_ prepared to condemn an entire Tribe to death, Cricketpaw?”

“ _Silence_ , Gray,” Sleet snapped. “Go stick your head in a snowbank to cool off.”

Gray glowered at her. “Sure thing, _sister_ ,” he growled. “Or shall I call you _Stoneteller_ , as you’ve grown so comfortable issuing orders to the rest of us lowly cave-guards and prey-hunters?”

“I won’t speak to you while you’re like this,” she warned him. “Leave.”

Gray stalked away, and after a moment, Swiftpaw awkwardly trailed after him, his tail dragging against the cave floor.

For a long time, all was quiet between mentor and to-be, kin and kin. At last, Sleet told him, “It is a heavy and sorrowful thing, being asked to choose.”

“How can I?” he asked miserably. “I didn’t know I would have to leave behind my Clan. But to sentence the Tribe to _death—_ ” His voice hitched up an octave in panic.

“Now you know what we someday hope to achieve,” Sleet replied, her voice gentle. “You can only act in accordance with the code you carry inside you—be it the warrior code, the way of the Tribe, or something new, and entirely your own.” She shifted closer, so that he could feel her warmth, and wrapped her tail around his paws. “I gave Whiteflower to WindClan so that she would live a long, healthy life. I cannot regret that decision. And so, my dear Cricketpaw, child of my child, of my child…understand that you will never choose incorrectly in my eyes.”

After a long moment, he lowered his head and butted it against her side. “Thank you, Sleet,” he whispered.

“Now,” she breathed, with a smile in her voice, “shall we hunt beneath the stars?”

— — —

As the cicada-song droned into a single note that glimmered in the greenleaf heat, and as the moon grew fatter in the sky overhead, Hawkstar called WindClan together for a meeting. Cricketpaw, who had been so deeply absorbed in his thoughts about returning to the Tribe that evening, was afraid for a sick, terrible moment that Hawkstar had learned of his nighttime deceit. He tried to make himself small as Talonfall loped to his place at the foot of the Tallrock.

“A favorable wind blows through our moor,” WindClan’s leader began, “and Yellowpetal has heard StarClan’s blessing carried upon it in a whisper.” He looked down at his Clanmates. “Frostbreeze. Paledawn. Quickwing. Runningblaze. Longleg. Please step forward.”

Cricketpaw held his breath as his father padded before the Tallrock alongside his fellow warriors. They sat in a semi-circle like a crescent moon, heads bowed in respectful deference to their leader.

“Your apprentices are all of an age that they may ascend to the rank of warrior within WindClan. In your eyes, have they learned the warrior code faithfully, and demonstrated mastery in all of the skills necessary to receive their full names?”

“Yes, Hawkstar,” the warriors replied as one.

“Then I call forth Bluepaw, Meadowpaw, Softpaw, Galepaw, and Fawnpaw.”

Cricketpaw looked around as his fellow apprentices nervously stepped forward, their eyes shining. _I can’t believe their warrior ceremony is today!_ he thought, feeling completely blindsided. How had he not noticed? Surely they’d talked about having their warrior assessments? But try as he might, he could only conjure memories of training in the Tribe, and brief, bright moments in the sunshine with Talonfall and Larkpaw. Cold shame tied knots in his stomach. _What kind of WindClan cat am I, letting myself be so distracted?_

And then, even worse: _Am I even a WindClan cat at all?_

One by one, Hawkstar asked the apprentices to step forward, and spoke words that seemed as ancient as the sky itself: “I, Hawkstar, leader of WindClan, call upon my warrior ancestors to look down on these apprentices. They have trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend them to you as warriors in their turn. Apprentices, do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend your Clan, even at the cost of your life?”

“I do,” the five cats chorused.

“Then, by the powers of StarClan, I give you your warrior name.” He nodded to Frostbreeze and Bluepaw. “Bluepaw, from this moment on, you shall be known as Blueshade.” Slowly, his eyes flicked down the line of mentors and apprentices. “Meadowpaw, from this moment on, you shall be known as Meadowpool. Softpaw, from this moment on, you shall be known as Softbreeze. Galepaw, from this moment on, you will be known as Galefeather. And lastly, but certainly not least, Fawnpaw _—_ you shall be known as Fawnflight.”

The newly-made warriors lowered their heads as a cry of joy went up from their Clanmates.

“StarClan honors your courage and spirit,” Hawkstar finished. “I am truly blessed as your leader to welcome the five of you as full warriors of WindClan.” He lifted his head, green eyes flashing, and cried, “Sleep well, warriors, in knowing that we shall have an unprecedented sentry duty tonight; from now until dawn, they will silently keep our borders, and reflect upon the virtues they will bring to our Clan!”

Cricketpaw lent his voice to the cheering of their warrior names, but with a sense of deep shame in knowing that while they carried out the ancient sentry ritual, he would be immeasurable lengths away, on the peak of a mountain made from stars. He looked at Longleg, and saw, with a pang, that a quiet sort of pride was burning in his father’s eyes.

 _When_ —if _—_ _I become a warrior,_ he thought, _will Longleg look at me the same as Fawnflight?_ Thinking of permanently losing Longleg’s love made the cold feeling inside him thicken and congeal to the point where he wanted to retch. But if he chose the Tribe, his father would almost certainly disown him. Turning against the warrior code was unthinkable to a cat like Longleg.

_But wasn’t this what I wanted? A family that would choose me? Cats who would believe in me? How can I still want Longleg when I have Sleet, or friends like Mothpaw and Swiftpaw?_

Lawkpaw’s face briefly swam through his thoughts. He shoved her away.

Cricketpaw worried his lip with a fang as cats began to trickle toward the soft grass by the edge of the hollow, intending to bed down for the night. He mewed halfhearted congratulations to the former apprentices on his way to lie down; and all alone in the area where the apprentices usually slept, he curled up and closed his eyes. Soon, he knew, he’d be back in the Tribe of Endless Hunting, training and laughing with Mothpaw and Swiftpaw.

_I want so badly to receive my warrior name. Would receiving my Tribe name feel the same? Would I be just as happy and proud?_

_No—I’m not sure it_ would _feel the same. I care about Sleet, and I care about Mothpaw and Swiftpaw. But I also owe so much to Talonfall and Larkpaw! How do I stay loyal to everything I was born into, but keep the Tribe’s memory alive so Sleet doesn’t fade?_

And then, quietly, from the deepest, most despairing place in his heart, he wondered: _How can I possibly choose who to become?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! it was just my birthday. it feels a little silly to be writing warrior cat stories at this age, but i'm having fun, so i'll keep going.
> 
> thank you for reading!!!


	5. Chapter 5

In the dusk before the Gathering, Cricketpaw sat upon the rim of WindClan’s camp, watching the dark shapes of warriors swim below him in the grassy hollow. Meadowpool shifted beside him, yawning.

“Are you excited for your first Gathering as a warrior?” he asked her.

She pushed her whiskers forward in a smile, squinting happily. “I can’t wait,” she purred. Then her tone turned sly. “Are _you_ excited for your first Gathering as an apprentice?”

“I’m nervous,” Cricketpaw admitted. “I’m old for an apprentice, and _really_ old for my first Gathering.” He’d missed two Gatherings in a row since beginning his training. Yellowpetal had decided he’d needed to let his body adjust to his new schedule as an apprentice before trekking to the island, and then he’d wrenched his shoulder training with Sleet the day before the following full moon. He’d been able to pass off the injury as an accident working with Talonfall, but guilt still prickled uncomfortably along his spine to think of how unconnected he felt to the Clans due to his nights spent with the Tribe.

“Nonsense,” Meadowpool said. Her whiskers brushed against his cheek in the dark, and he jumped a little to find her so close. “If anyone gets smart where I can hear them, I’ll pound a lesson into their shrew-brain.”

“Besides,” chirped a third voice from Cricketpaw’s other side, “I’m still a ’paw, too, and we’re about the same age.”

Meadowpool drew back. “Larkpaw,” she said, coolly.

Cricketpaw hadn’t even noticed her pad up to them along the lip of the hollow. His tail-tip lifted in greeting from where it had lain by his forepaws. 

“Hi, Meadowpool,” mewed Larkpaw. “Could I borrow Cricketpaw? I’d like to tell him something before we head out.”

“Hmph,” Meadowpaw replied as she stood. “Don’t be too long, or maybe Cricketpaw will miss _this_ Gathering, too.” Before either apprentice could answer, she’d hopped off the hollow’s edge and begun padding down the slope to the rest of the Clan.

“Touchy,” remarked Larkpaw.

“I wonder why?”

“I’m sure it’s pre-Gathering nerves,” she replied. Then she turned away from camp, toward the open fields, and waved him closer with her tail. They trotted down into the whispering sea of moor grass. “Cricketpaw,” she breathed, once they were a good many foxlengths from camp. Her voice struck him like a raindrop, forcing his spine to straighten. “Can I tell you a secret?”

She sat, looking very small all of a sudden. He was moving before his mind could catch up with the fact he’d gotten to his paws. Carefully, he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with her, gently curling his tail around her side. “I’m here,” he said, flustered by the sadness in her voice.

To his surprise, she didn’t try to pull away. She simply sighed and laid her cheek in the hollow between his jaw and his chest. Something seized around his heart and held it tight—fur in thorns, teeth in flesh. He swallowed, tremulously, and rested a nervous chin between her ears.

There was a long silence. It shivered quietly between their soft breaths, circling them like a stalking fox. At last, Larkpaw said, “StarClan gave me a prophecy.”

He blinked. “A prophecy?” He’d always assumed prophecies would be good news, but the tremble in her voice told him otherwise.

She laughed a little, and it felt as though she were pressing closer to him. He hardly dared breathe. “It was scary,” she said, after a long moment. “It scared me.”

“What did you see?” he whispered back, pressing his eyes to the stars. It chilled him, thinking that she’d been forced to live through some terrible, dark warning before it even came to light.

“I…”

Overhead, Silverpelt twinkled serenely down at them. Cricketpaw stared back, and wondered, anxiously, what they saw. Did they know about Sleet? Or Swiftpaw, or Mothpaw? Did they think him disloyal for what he’d done—for what he was doing? Was his fate still uncertain to them, the way it was to Cricketpaw, or did they already know what he would decide, and hate him for it?

The wind stuttered and then rose around them, ominously cool for greenleaf. He wondered if this, too, was an omen sent by their ancestors—a warning for the way Cricketpaw held his friend close, or perhaps a bitter word against his code-breaking dreams. Only Larkpaw would be able to say, but she remained silent.

Finally, she mumbled into his fur, “It was a night like this. Very clear skies, and a green wind. I couldn’t sleep. Paledawn had sentry duty; she took me out of camp, so I could walk and clear my head. And then, when I looked up, I saw it—an overly bright star, blistering, stretching out until it had a tail. It raced through the sky, and I _heard_ it: our ancestors crying out, in one terrible voice. I saw darkness welling like blood, seeping forward until the stars were swallowed. The light in the sky vanished.” Then her voice changed. It went hollow, whispery; Cricketpaw swore there was an echo to her words, male and female, ancient and young. “ _The Firetail will turn the night sky to dawn, and the lost and hidden will be brought to light._ ”

All the hairs on Cricketpaw’s pelt felt like they were standing straight up.

“At the next Gathering, I told Fernfrost and Curlpaw; they ended up calling back all the medicine cats for an emergency meeting on the island, so I could tell them what I’d seen, what I’d heard. What I’d _felt_. And it turned out Mosspelt had been given a prophecy, too: _Bonds will be severed._ And Dapplepool: _Three will go against the stars._ And even Antlerfall: _The final stand, a wound left to fester, until rot threatens the bone._ ”

“F... _four_ different prophecies?” Cricketpaw asked, in a small voice. None of them sounded very promising.

“One prophecy, I think, broken into four,” Larkpaw replied, just as quietly. “We don’t know the order in which the prophecies go together; we only know that we saw our ancestors fade and die. Dapplepool heard her mother cry out. Mosspelt saw his brother’s star fade. The cats I heard scream—” She hesitated, swallowing hard. Her voice came out strangled. “They must have been my ancestors, too.”

“Does Hawkstar know?” he asked, suddenly desperate for the reassurance of an older warrior. “Talonfall?”

She nodded miserably against his chest. “I’m sure the other medicine cats have discussed it with their leaders and elders as well. Nobody knows what this darkness is—only that it seems to be encroaching on StarClan. If our history is destroyed...our ancestors, our code, the many generations of memories we’ve made… How could the Clans possibly survive?”

A dark, heavy, sinking thing was lodged in Cricketpaw’s ribs. He could only think of Sleet, and the training he’d been doing in his dreams—training he was currently quite late for. Training he was skipping tonight, for the first time since it had begun. “Could it be,” he said, slowly, “that living cats are putting the foundation of the Clans at risk?”

“There have always been codebreakers,” Larkpaw mused. “Enemy Clan cats who fell in love. Warriors tempted by life with Twolegs. It’s never been a problem before—at least, not of this magnitude. It’s like something out of the Old Prophecies, like the legend of the Dark Forest waging its war against the stars.”

“Larkpaw,” Cricketpaw said, slowly, struggling to find the words. He knew now that he was going to be honest with her. How could he keep this secret, after Larkpaw had so openly shared her visions and her fears with him? “I—”

But before he could continue, a call came out through the darkness.

“Cricketpaw. Larkpaw. You’ve been out here long enough.”

Guiltily, the two apprentices sprang apart. Talonfall made a little, dark shape upon the lip of WindClan’s hollow. From this distance, Cricketpaw couldn’t quite make out his mentor’s expression, but his voice had been stern; and, he realized, their position must have seemed quite suggestive for a warrior’s apprentice and a medicine cat.

As they bounded back up the gentle slope to Talonfall, Hawkstar appeared beside his brother. The two toms exchanged a quiet word; then their leader began his trek toward the lakeshore, followed by the company of warriors he’d selected earlier. As they cleared the edge of the camp, Blueshade and Galefeather paused, eyes narrowing.

“Were you out here alone?” Galefeather asked Larkpaw in a low voice. “With _him_?”

She lifted her chin, unintimidated by her brother’s growl. “Cricketpaw trains with me. You know that.”

“As long as he watches himself,” Blueshade sniffed. “Mind your place, _apprentice_.”

“If I recall correctly, you were sleeping with the ’paws only two nights ago,” Talonfall remarked. His tone was mild, but still, it did the trick in deflating Blueshade. The deputy pressed forward into his personal space. “As far as I can tell, Cricketpaw has done nothing untoward regarding your sister. _Your_ behavior, however, concerns me. Shall I assign you to Harefoot tomorrow to remind you of the important tasks we _all_ offer to WindClan—from the highest of warriors to the lowliest of apprentices?”

Blueshade made a grumbling sound deep in his chest, but he dipped his head obediently. “If you see fit to do so, Talonfall.”

“Excellent. Carry on, then. It wouldn’t do for you to be late to the Gathering.” Talonfall looked to Larkpaw, and added, “Why don’t you go ahead with your brothers?”

She hesitated, opening her mouth as if to protest. Then she pressed her lips tight, turned, and left wordlessly alongside Galefeather—who paused only to shoot one last dark look at Cricketpaw.

“Am I in trouble?” Cricketpaw asked, when the young warriors had at last trotted ahead.

“Should you be?” Talonfall asked.

Cricketpaw cast his eyes to his paws. “Well,” he began, “you’ve kept me back from the warriors attending the Gathering. Am I no longer going?”

Talonfall gently nudged his shoulder, and once Cricketpaw was looking up again, he shook his head. “We’re taking our time. Would you like to talk about it, Cricketpaw?”

It felt like his mentor was speaking a language Cricketpaw was failing to understand. “Talk about what?” he said, cautiously. He could skim his paws around the shoreline of his feelings for Larkpaw, but not dip them into the center of the dark, wet hole they made in his chest. He could trace the way his resentment for Galefeather and Blueshade made him feel, but he didn’t dare speak its shape aloud.

“About the prophecy you just learned. Unless there’s something else?”

Alarm and relief warred in his chest, crashing like storm waves on the lake. “Is it okay that she told me, Talonfall?”

“I don’t make a habit of questioning what medicine cats choose to do,” his mentor replied. “The important thing is that you know...and what you’ll do with that information.”

“It sounds like StarClan is in danger,” Cricketpaw hedged, as they padded after the company of warriors. “That there’s darkness....”

Suddenly, he stopped, struck by one of the lines of the prophecy. _Three will go against the stars._ So far, only he, Swiftpaw, and Mothpaw were training with the Tribe of Endless Hunting. Could _they_ be the three StarClan was warning the medicine cats about?

He swayed on his feet, feeling sick. _I can’t go against StarClan,_ he thought, panicked. _I want to help Sleet, but not if it means leaving WindClan behind! My father, my mother, my siblings—they aren’t with the Tribe. And Larkpaw—_

“Tell me,” Talonpaw urged him. Cricketpaw blinked. His mentor was crouched in front of him, eyes glowing with concern. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Cricketpaw trembled beneath the weight of it all—the prophecy, the emotions he held for Larkpaw, the way he wished Sleet or Talonfall were his parents instead of Longleg. Was this the way the cats in the Old Prophecies had gone wrong? They’d been given endless chances to ask for help, to tell the truth, just like Cricketpaw; and yet all he wanted to do was hide the pain he was in. He was terrified of Talonfall’s disappointment.

“Is it okay if we talk after the Gathering?” he whispered. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise. It’s just...I think I understand some of the prophecy. I think Larkpaw should hear it, too. Maybe...maybe even Yellowpetal.”

Talonfall nodded, his pace slowing. “Can I help you, Cricketpaw? With any of this?”

He shook his head. “No—” Cricketpaw found he couldn’t take another step. His voice seized up, and he had to swallow hard to clear his throat of the lump lodged in it. “Talonfall, I think this is all my fault.”

His mentor gazed at him for another moment. Finally, he reached forward, touching his nose to Cricketpaw’s forehead, the way he’d done when Cricketpaw had first become his apprentice. “If life were a stream with no turns and no boulders,” he replied, “then there would be no challenges to learn from, and it would hardly be worth living.” He withdrew, eyes glinting, and gestured with his chin after the rest of their Clan. “Come, Cricketpaw. Whatever it is, we’ll work through it together.”

— — —

When they at last arrived at the Gathering, Cricketpaw nearly swallowed his tongue. The apprentices and new warriors had grouped together by the pines, and it turned out Swiftpaw _did_ exist after all, standing whole and well outside of Cricketpaw’s dreams. He hesitated, snared by the way his dream-reality was crashing with what he was seeing; but Swiftpaw was undeniably there, doing solid, real cat things, like sitting beside Mothpaw, and chatting with a small, dark she-cat that smelled of ShadowClan. He paused mid-sentence as Cricketpaw nervously approached, and his eyes lit up.

“ _Crick—_ ”

“Oh! You must be Cricketpaw!” Mothpaw interjected quickly, beaming. He didn’t miss the way she smacked her paw over Swiftpaw’s in warning. “Um, _Curlpaw_ , here, was just talking about you!”

Talonfall’s eyes were burning curious holes in Cricketpaw’s pelt.

The little ShadowClan cat, Curlpaw, looked curiously at Mothpaw, but didn’t correct her outright. “Oh,” she mewed. “Yes. This must be Cricketpaw. Larkpaw’s friend.” Then she met Cricketpaw’s eyes and gave him a crooked smile. “I’m the ShadowClan medicine cat apprentice,” she explained. “Larkpaw _does_ talk about you often.”

Talonfall shrugged and drifted away, toward the great oak.

“ _Mousebrain_ ,” Mothpaw hissed at Swiftpaw.

Curlpaw was smirking at them. “Hey,” she said, giving Mothpaw a teasing nudge. “Are you three secret friends or something?”

“Was it that obvious?” Swiftpaw whispered back, looking perfectly bemused.

Cricketpaw wanted to groan aloud from his friends’ perfect lack of subtlety.

“It’s cool,” purred Curlpaw. She seemed very relaxed, despite how she’d just covered up a code-breaking friendship for three apprentices outside of her own Clan. She turned toward the great oak, dragging her black tail along Mothpaw’s side as she went. “Have fun—maybe we’ll have another chance to chat after the Gathering?”

“Sure,” the little ThunderClan cat mewed, watching her go.

“I can’t believe you finally made it!” Swiftpaw was saying. Cricketpaw forced his attention back on the RiverClan apprentice. He was _huge,_ just like he’d been in Cricketpaw’s dreams, but somehow barely intimidating despite his size; his tail was standing straight up in delight, and his expression was infectiously cheerful. He poked Cricketpaw in the chest with one of his large forepaws.

“It’s so nice to see you,” Mothpaw told him, blue eyes bright. “I mean, we see you all the time, but it’s nice to see you like _this_.” Then her nose wrinkled playfully. “Even though you smell like WindClan.”

Cricketpaw was torn between guilt and joy. His heart was pounding gladness into every bit of his body, but he couldn’t forget the way Larkpaw had trembled against his chest, or the echo of ancient voices intertwined with every line of prophecy she’d spoken. “It definitely took me long enough to get here,” he tried to joke, but his voice came out strangled. He quietly cleared his throat. “And I’d rather smell like wind and grass than maples and _mud_.”

“No kidding!” purred Swiftpaw. “You’re practically a warrior. Or—” and here his voice went soft, conspiratorial. “ _A Tribe member_.”

“Stop that,” Mothpaw said, her eyes glittering with good humor. “We’re at a Gathering. And besides, Cricketpaw, you’ll smell like mud all the time once you get your...full name.” She and Swiftpaw shared a delighted look with each other, and then looked to Cricketpaw again, as if inviting him to join in.

_Three will go against the stars._

Cricketpaw smiled, but he felt sick.

He sat with his friends as the Gathering began; Hawkstar announced the naming of WindClan’s five newest warriors, and Minkstar gravely related news of an unseasonable case of greencough. His mind was wandering through the starlit mountains of his dreams. Would Sleet know about his treachery in telling Larkpaw and Talonfall the truth? Would Gray?

And would they tell Swiftpaw and Mothpaw?

He eyed Swiftpaw’s great shape beside him, and to his alarm, Swiftpaw looked down and gave him a furtive little smile. It didn’t make Cricketpaw feel good to know he and Swiftpaw were united in this secret; it made his skin crawl, his fur itch, his stomach churn. _I can’t do it,_ he thought, nervously wiping clammy pads against the pine needles underfoot. _I can’t do it, I can’t do it. I have to stay loyal to WindClan. Sleet will still care about me—she’ll understand—but this is too big, too much for me, I can’t—_

“Cats of all Clans,” cried Halfstar of ThunderClan, a snarl in his voice, “I cannot sit idly by and pretend all is well like my fellow leaders. You must know our warrior code is under threat.”

Cricketpaw jumped. Mothpaw shrank down, making herself smaller than usual. Even Swiftpaw’s smile turned slightly queasy; it threatened to melt off his face altogether.

“Recently,” Halfstar continued, glowering down from his branch over the Gathering, “our medicine cats were given a prophecy that points to _codebreakers_ among us, moving in secret, threatening the sanctity of our life and the wisdom of our warrior ancestors. I am sure that in time, the nature of this crime will become clear; but I warn you now that ThunderClan will not stand for treachery. Mosspelt?”

A meek-looking tabby shuffled forward, eyes flicking skittishly around the forest clearing. Cricketpaw looked helplessly past him, toward where Larkpaw sat twig-straight, expression furious. Yellowpetal’s gray-gold pelt was just visible beside her, mostly sunk in moonshadow. It was impossible to see the look on her face, but he imagined it to be forbidding.

Mosspelt cleared his throat, and then said aloud, in that same awful, shimmery voice of echoes, ancestor upon ancestor upon living:

_The final stand, a wound left to fester, until the rot threatens the bone._

_Three will go against the stars. Bonds will be severed._

_The Firetail will turn the night sky to dawn,_

_and the lost and hidden will be brought to light._

The Gathering was utterly silent.

“No,” whispered Mothpaw, closing her eyes.

The distress in her voice was enough to make Cricketpaw throw caution to the wind; out of affection for the little cat who had helped him grow in the mountains, who had smeared him in mud and showed him how to kill an owl, he leaned over to her. She pressed back, trembling, grateful to be held up as their Clanmates began to yowl in anger.

— — —

“How _could_ he!” seethed Larkpaw.

Cricketpaw had never seen his friend so furious. She paced angrily back and forth within Hawkstar’s den, tail lashing. Yellowpetal watched her, eyes grim.

“Mosspelt had no right. We’d agreed to talk to our leaders and elders; we didn’t decide on anything beyond that. Where’s his sense of loyalty to StarClan? It wasn’t time! He’s panicked the Clans over nothing!”

“This prophecy is not ‘nothing,’” Yellowpetal warned her, though her voice remained mild. “And it’s not for you to decide how the Clan leaders act on the omens we receive. You would do well to remember your place.”

“My _place_?” Larkpaw demanded, rounding on her mentor. “My _place_ is with WindClan, and StarClan, and the medicine cat den. I do my duty. I heal. I deliver kits, and I keep warriors alive, and I pass their souls on to the stars. I listen to the winds, and I see what our ancestors want me to see. I help Cricketpaw breathe. We’re medicine cats, Yellowpetal! We don’t cause _war_ , which is _exactly what Mosspelt has done_!”

“Easy,” growled Talonfall. He was at the mouth of Hawkstar’s den, watching the warriors still milling about in camp. Everyone was talking in hushed tones about Halfstar’s terrible pronouncement, save for the meeting Hawkstar had demanded of Talonfall, Yellowpetal, and their apprentices. “This isn’t war, Larkpaw. Not by a mouse’s whisker.”

“But it _will_ be,” she wailed. “Sowing unrest in the Clans—even inside his _own_ Clan! Mistrust will tear everyone apart. We don’t know what the prophecy means, but Halfstar’s made up his mind anyway, and Mosspelt didn’t even try to temper his accusations.”

“I understand, Larkpaw,” Talonfall replied evenly, without turning to look at Larkpaw, “But isn’t the obvious assumption that warriors are breaking the code? ‘Three will go against the stars’—”

And then he stopped. Drew himself up tall. Turned, slowly, horribly, to Cricketpaw, and fixed his eyes upon his apprentice.

“Cricketpaw,” he said. “Tell me you don’t think you’re one of the three. Tell me that _right now_ , and I won’t assign you Harefoot’s bedding and ticks for the next moon.”

“Talonfall,” Cricketpaw whimpered.

“ _Tell me right now_ ,” his mentor repeated, getting ominously to his feet.

“I—” He looked around for help, but found Yellowpetal and Larkpaw only staring. Larkpaw was slack-jawed, paused mid-fury; Yellowpetal’s eyes were as wide as the moon overhead. “I mean, I’m not exactly sure, either…”

“Oh,” Larkpaw said in a funny little voice, as brittle as a dry leaf. “Is that why you smelled so much like ThunderClan while we walked home?”

“No!” Cricketpaw gasped, flushing beneath his fur. “Well, I mean, kind of, but not—I’m not breaking the code—I’m not in _love_ with anyone from ThunderClan, if that’s what you mean!”

Hawkstar stepped into his den at that moment, looming beside his deputy. His body cut off the moonlight that had been seeping through the cleft in the Tallrock.

“Be seated,” their leader said, his eyes flicking around in the gloom. “All of you.” Then he looked directly to Cricketpaw and said, slowly and awfully, “I think that I would very much like to hear whatever comes next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it definitely wouldn't be a warrior cat fanfic without a good prophecy. or even a bad prophecy. anyway the pacing in this one felt weird... sorry... it's been a minute since my last update. pls enjoy punchcat drama


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